


If Only in My Dreams

by pollinia



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, Multi, Silly, Threesome - M/M/M, look at these losers, sexting with geriatrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollinia/pseuds/pollinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy PolyDays, dsudis!</p>
<p>Sam buzzed in next. <i>Steve Rogers, acting shy? I'm not so sure I'm really sexting the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dsudis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/gifts).



**_Now_ **

"Captain Rogers," Nick Fury said leaning forward on his elbows, "I would ask you for a debrief but..."

Steve hung his head in shame as Fury carded through an embarrassingly thick dossier of printouts.

"But as you know, my secretary Marci received full documentation this morning."

"Sir--"

"Captain Rogers, why did I walk into my office this morning to witness my secretary staring at compromising photos of you, Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Wilson?"

"Sir, I can--"

" _Staring._ "

***

**_Two Day Earlier_ **

Steve shuddered against the cold as he slammed shut the creaking cabin door. He was in a foul mood.

The mission had gone mostly as planned--up until the lab blew up and Coulson and kids were late the goddamn Bus again. And then he'd had to trek across 23 miles of remote Polish wilderness and three feet of snow and bitter cold to the safe house which he guessed didn't have running water or electricity or a roof that didn't leak.

He knew he shouldn't complain. People didn't like it when Captain America complained. But Steve Rogers was cold and tired and hungry, and two out of those three things didn't usually happen.

The snow was already melting into the shoulders of his uniform, off the leather of his boots. It left a muddy, wet trail as he moved from the front door to the corner that housed a propane stove and a basin for water.

Steve rummaged through the single cupboard where he found some cans of soup, a bag of rice, and a bottle of whiskey. He frowned.

"Hey, Jarvis, any chance you're running this joint?" Silence answered. "Didn't think so, buddy."

Finally he resigned himself to his fate and cranked open a can of soup and shoved a spoon inside. He dropped onto the sagging, threadbare couch.

"Merry fucking Christmas," he muttered into the frosty air.

***

By 8 o'clock, Steve got a fire going in the woodstove.

He wasn't even really cold anymore, not after eating; his body worked like a blast furnace if he gave it a proper amount of fuel.

He stared at his Starkphone where sat on the charmingly rustic, rough-cut end table. He wasn't due for a check-in for a few more hours and he definitely wasn't supposed to use his phone for personal calls, but it's not like he was actually in danger here. He wasn't going dark. He was just waiting for his late ride.

He snatched his phone from the table and tapped out a text.

_Hey sorry I'm going to be a little late._

A minute later, his phone buzzed in his hand. He opened it to find a photo of Bucky and Sam wearing reindeer antlers, ugly Christmas sweaters, and deep, melodramatic frowns.

Steve chuckled before snapping a picture of his own sad face and sending it back.

_Merry Christmas guys._

Sam texted back. _How late? Because:_ , followed by a picture of their kitchen counter, covered in pans of food that were supposed to be their Christmas dinner. Mashed potatoes and green beans and a roasted chicken with apple-sage stuffing that Sam had been promising for weeks.

Steve sent a picture of his empty soup can with the spoon still in it.

Bucky: _Please tell me you at least heated that up, Steve._

Steve sank back into the couch cushions, feeling warmer than he had all night.

It had been his turn to Cap. They'd turned it into a verb, the three of them. _Fury called. Who's Cap-ing this week? I Cap-ed last time. Gee, you must be tired from all that Cap-ing; you should get in this bed immediately._

And it had been his turn. Bucky outright refused to work on Christmas. He'd recounted in dramatic detail the years he'd spent working his fingers to the bone only to get home in time to give Steve some tiny present and then fall dead-tired into bed. (And actually slept. These days, "You look tired, come to bed," usually led to a very different outcome.) He said he'd missed enough holidays, thank you very much.

Sam said the holidays were a tough time down at the VA and he worked the morning and planned to be on-call for the rest.

Steve didn't mind. Especially not for a mission as easy as this one was supposed to be. He hated to use his Captain Voice, but he was going to have a talk with Coulson and the kids when he saw them.

He picked up his phone and texted back. _Ate it cold out of the can._

_Goddamn it, Steve._

***

At 9:57, three minutes before check-in, Steve's phone buzzed.

_Inhuman problem, NJ. Pick up tmr, 7am. -P.C._

Jersey. Figured.

Steve wondered briefly if he could run all the way back to Brooklyn (excepting the Atlantic Ocean, of course, but there were planes. Commercial planes that mostly left when they said they were going to leave, "inhuman problem" or not). But there was no point in dwelling on it.

Instead, he turned sideways on the couch and lay down. He balled up his jacket to use as a pillow and sent out another text to Sam and Bucky, apologetic and sad.

Sam: _We figured. No problem. See you tomorrow, Steve._

Bucky: _You owe us._

Steve smiled into the dim light of his phone. _Don't I know it._

This got him a picture of the Bucky and Sam puckering their lips at the screen. Steve smiled.

_See,_ he answered, _Goodnight._

He lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. Or what he assumed was the ceiling; it was so dark without the streetlights he was used to. He knew city people paid a lot of money for rustic vacations so they could "rest," but the quiet always left him unsettled, made him think of Europe.

_Hey,_ he texted Bucky, _remember that time outside of Salzburg?_

_When the foxes ran off with Gabe's knapsack?_

_Yes!!!_

_Hey you know what else?_

_What?_

Seconds later, Steve's phone buzzed with a picture message. Steve clicked on it and his screen filled with a dim, grainy image of Sam and Bucky on a backdrop of pillows, Bucky's lips pressed to that spot behind Sam's ear that made his hips jump off the bed every time. Steve's breath caught in his throat. If he squinted, he thought he could make out the way the tip of Bucky's tongue teased at soft skin.

Steve grinned into the dark. _Not fair,_ he typed back.

The answering picture was Sam's face, his mouth split in a wide smile like he thought the joke was funny even though his eyes were squeezed shut in a way that was frustratingly familiar.

_Seems fair from where I'm sitting, pal,_ Bucky responded.

_Completely unfair._

A picture of Sam cupping the back of Bucky's head as they kissed. Even in the dark, Steve could see the flush over Bucky's cheekbones.

_Hey if someone was home in time for dinner..._

Steve felt himself hovering somewhere between turned on and amused, which pretty much described his daily existence lately.

_Hate to interrupt you two,_ he answered

He wasn't surprised when it took a little longer than usual to get a response.

_Doll you couldn't be a bother if you tried._

Steve smiled. Things were getting pretty serious when Bucky brought out the sweet nicknames. Steve liked him like this, right at the beginning, the cusp, when he was just starting to lose himself in it, when his accent came out a little stronger, when he doted on them in this completely uncharacteristic way. And Sam--

Steve's phone buzzed again, this time with a picture from Sam: his free hand spread on Bucky's bare abdomen, his face serious as he stared into the camera.

_We're a little bored without you here, man,_ he said, even though Steve thought they looked the furthest thing from bored he'd ever seen.

_You're doing fine,_ he answered.

_Could be doing better,_ Bucky said, _come on, sugar._

Steve stared down at the phone in his hands, completely unsure how to do this. All he wanted was to be there with them, warm in their ridiculous bed, their bodies splayed over every inch of it. Anywhere you reached: more skin, another hand to grip.

Biting his lip, he snapped a picture of his face sporting a weak smile. He didn't know what he hoped to get across with it, but he hoped he was doing it well enough. The flash made him looked washed out but he didn't think they'd care.

_Miss those pretty eyes, darlin,_ Bucky answered.

Sam buzzed in next. _Steve Rogers, acting shy? I'm not so sure I'm really sexting the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan._

Steve snorted. 

Back before the ice, this would have been impossible in every conceivable way. Loving either of them at all, much less both of them. He would have been happy for any scrap. And here he was, trapped in the eastern European wilderness, looking at pictures of them, intimate and beautiful in their shared bed.

With a rush of gratitude, he unbuttoned his shirt.

_Like the decor,_ Sam said, _very lumberjack._

Bucky simply sent a picture of his waist and hips, his jeans open to reveal black briefs.

Steve breathed out in a rush through his mouth. These two would be the death of him.

He hesitated only a moment before pushing his tac pants down his thighs and pressed his heel of his hand over his dick. He'd been hard for twenty minutes now. When he gripped himself, he could feel the pulse of blood; the heat seared his skin.

He took a picture. _Miss you two like crazy,_ he added and began to stroke himself.

In the dark, Steve's phone vibrated with a flurry of photos: awkward angles of Bucky knelt between Sam's knees, his face nuzzled against hip bones, Sam's fist wrapped in Bucky's hair; the column of Bucky's throat as he arched his back; a foreshortened shot of Sam's chest, all the hard planes of it, the soft nest of hair, clavicles. No more time for words.

Steve moved his hand faster, braving to set the phone down but not wanting to let them go quite yet, and he gripped himself with both hands. He thought about them, stretched out together, without him, and then with him, their hands, the way the three of them never felt like too much.

If Sam were here, he would lace his fingers together behind Steve's neck and kiss him, lips to lips, tongue swiping tongue, strong thigh slotted between both of Steve's.

And Bucky--Bucky would be between the knees of one of them. He loved it, loved to taste them, to drag his nose over hip bones, nuzzle into rough hair, lick the full length of them, caressing the ribcage of the other as he went. And as he got close, he'd catch eyes with Steve, press his palm over Steve's heart to feel the beat persisting, even after everything. He'd done it the first time. He'd done it every time since.

Steve could feel himself getting closer, his breath catching in his throat, eyes sliding shut with sensation, the cool night air welcomed against his burning skin. 

When the phone buzzed beside him on the couch, he nearly tipped over the edge.

_Miss you too,_ Bucky said, accompanied by the image of him with his thighs bracketing Sam's hips, pushing up with his knees.

"Jesus," Steve groaned and that was it. That was the moment, the two of them, even an ocean away, driving him crazy like they always did, the two of them, the _three_ of them, and he came in pulses over his hand, his vision blacking out at the edges, the cold rushing into his mouth as he breathed, rushing back out as heat over his lips, his whole body trembling with it.

He loved them a ridiculous amount, a dangerous-to-national-security amount. He would divulge secrets for them, murder dignitaries.

_Merry Christmas, loves,_ he texted back.

***

**_Now_ **

"So, Cap," Fury said, leaning back in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, "do you mind explaining to me why Marci hasn't looked me in the eye since 8:45 this morning?"

Steve stared at his hands for a moment, fighting back the blush threatening to creep over his face, his neck, his clavicles. Things like forgetting to delete text messages why he, like Sam, made a better soldier than a spy. He swallowed thickly.

"It was Christmas, sir."

Fury frowned at him. "Is that your official statement?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "Fine. Send those other two chowderheads in next."


End file.
